Mae Govannen!

I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it, but i'll keep blabbing to a minimum:

so,

disclaimer: i own nothing of J.R.R. Tolkien's work.

and please reveiw!

namarïe!

"And what then? Will they not spread to other lands?"

"Other lands are not my concern."

-from The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.

"Three rings for the Elvenkings under the sky,

"Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,

"Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,

"One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

"In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.

"One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

"One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them,

"In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie."

"I do not understand," said Thranduil, trying to grasp the full scale of what Gandalf the Grey was saying. "You would have me believe that the Dark Lord has returned?"

"The stirrings in Dol Guldur are by no means a mere accident, Elvenking." The istari's normally twinkling eyes were dark and grim as a storm bank. "My fellow wizard, Radagast the Brown, believes the same."

"Why come to me, Míthrandir? Why not to your White Council?"

"I have just come from Imladris," said Gandalf, his look of gloom darkening. "Saruman does not want to believe it."

"Lord Elrond, and Lady Galadriel?"

"They agree with me for the most part."

"Again, I ask: why come to me?"

"Because very soon, something will happen, Thranduil. Something that will concern you."

The elf's searching gaze met Gandalf's, his face now wary. "And what may that be?"

"A company set out from the Shire quite some time ago. Their journey has brought them far and will, I believe, continue on rather a bit further. They will soon reach Mirkwood, and I plan to set them on the Elven Path. I would ask that you assist them if you can."

Thranduil saw the secrets gleaming in the blue eyes of the wizard. "What is this company, Míthrandir?"

Gandalf sighed. "They are the Dwarves of Erebor, led by Thorin Oakenshield."

Thranduil fell silent, his eyes darkening. He could tell that Gandalf's worried gaze was on him, and he was quiet for so long that Gandalf finally ventured,

"Thranduil?

"The lord of silver fountains,

"the king of carven stone,

"the King beneath the mountain,

"shall come into his own.

"His wealth shall flow in fountains,

"and beneath the sun,

"the woods shall wave on mountains,

"and the rivers golden run.

"And the streams shall run in gladness,

"at the Mountain King's return,

"but all sorrow fail in sadness,

"and the lake shall shine and burn."

Thranduil's voice echoed on around the chamber long after he had stopped talking, taking on an almost menacing quality as it slowly faded away.

"Yes," said Gandalf quietly.

"You ask that I aid the grandson of Thrór?" Thranduil's voice was flat. Cold as the blade of winter. "The very dwarf that bade us pay tithe and homage to him? Who would never have raised a hand if we had been beset by foes? Al, Míthrandir. I did not risk my people to defent that mountain from the dragon. Why should I help Thorin Oakenshield now?"

Gandalf was silent, but soon he said, "There are dark times coming, Thranduil." His voice thrummed with an undercurrent of power, and Thranduil took a step back, now wary, feeling the swell of energy in the air. He was suddenly uneasy. "For all our sakes- set aside these petty grievances." The elf caught a flash of red gleam like a fallen star from the wizard's finger, and the power seemed almost to ensnare him to its will- he could not step away. "Thorin is not his grandfather."

"He is still a dwarf of Durin's line!" spat Thranduil.

"That is exactly why he must reach Erebor before Durin's Day!"

"If they attempt to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, they will all die in the fires of Smaug," said Thranduil darkly. "Have you told them? That the journey will end in their deaths?"

"Thorin knows," said Gandalf. "The others suspect." They watched each other for a time until, at last, the istari sighed. "Please, Thranduil."

The Elvenking's eyes were blades of ice, face a stony mask. "Why should i? Give me one sound reason, Míthrandir."

Gandalf's voice was steady. "Maer o úrn I ennorath."

For the good of Middle Earth.

No words came to Thranduil as he felt his will cave, trapped by some force greater than he. He knew now what Gandalf possessed. It had long been rumoured that the Ring of Fire was abroad…Narya had come once again- though now borne by someone other than Círdan the Shipwright. "Mae id…" His voice was a tired growl.

Very well.

"Thank you," said Gandalf, sounding relieved and weary. "I will tell Thorin not to fear your people should he see them."

"Do not thank me yet, Míthrandir," said Thranduil, "for I do not do this gladly. Oakenshield must first survive the nests of the spiders."

"You cannot mean to leave the company to those creatures?" said the wizard in shock.

Thranduil smiled, but it was cold and dangerous like a frozen lake in the dead of winter. One wrong step and you could fall in. Another… and you could drown. "If the spiders find the dwarves, I will not risk my people to come to their aid."

Gandalf stood stunned for a moment, before he shook his head. "The loss of your son had destroyed your heart, Thranduil. Turned it to cold stone."

"Ern le manen!" screamed the elf in a sudden rage, turning on Gandalf as his hair flew out behind him in a curtain of starlight.

How dare you!

Gandalf met Thranduil's blazing eyes with his own. "Legolas is gone, Thranduil. Fern. Adleanuir." Dead. Lost forever. "Nothing will change that."

Thranduil stumbled back as though struck, the old wounds in his heart tearing asunder once again, the pain making it hard to breathe. He had tried so hard to forget…but a father's love for his son is not so easily forsaken. Thranduil knew that now. He would never be rid of this pain.

Never.

"You need to accept Legolas's death," continued the istari relentlessly, blue eyes like flames. "You cannot bring him back, Elvenking."

Thranduil's breathing was ragged, as if he had received a mortal wound. He backed into a wall of stone and wood, his heart trying to rip itself apart. "Daur," he rasped. "Daur, Míthrandir. Fasta." Stop. Please. He felt the hot stinging in his eyes and had no strength left to prevent the tears from running down his face. "I will aid Oakenshield. Take him up to the very mountain if you so wish…if you will only stop."

Gandalf surveyed the stricken elf, remorse in his gaze. His lined face was sad as he said, "My apologies, Thranduil. I meant not to wound you."

The Elvenking shook his head, swallowing. "I am deserving of it."

"No. No, you are not." Gandalf sighed. "Any father would feel the same."

Thranduil bowed his head, the tears silver on his fair skin. "Lis carir raitha I minib othlonn?"

When do they reach the Elven Road?

"Oraeron," said Gandalf.

The seventh day of the week. That was in two days. "And you will be with them?"

"No. I have my own path to follow." The wizard looked grim. "I have need to travel to the High Fells. There-"

Thranduil raised a hand to halt him. A shudder had run though him at the name. "I need not know of your business with Angmar's grave. I ask only that you tell me, should the Nine walk free once again. I shall have my people watch for the dwarves. They need not fear the spiders if they remain on the path."

"I will tell them so."

Thranduil nodded, standing tall once more, a king with a crown of wooden thorns, his eyes cool and calm. "Ride well, Míthrandir. The way you are headed…you may need it."

"Run!" squealed Bilbo, darting through the tangled trees, gasping for air. "Quick!"

"They are too fast, Master Baggins!" yelled Kíli, glancing back as the spider scuttled along at astonishing speed, all its dark eyes full of a murderous rage.

"It runs! Tries to escape!" it gibbered in a high nasally voice as it gained on them. "Feast on legs!"

"Gandalf said that the elves would help us!"

"He also said not to leave the path! Repeatedly!" Kíli went for his sword before seeming to remember that it was ornamenting a spider carcass. "I doubt the elves would help us now."

Bilbo let out a yell as the spider lunged for him, but Kíli grabbed his arm and dove into a net of tree roots that formed a little cage. It was a rather tight squeeze, but they got in before the spider could seize them, and it squealed in anger, throwing itself against the mesh of roots. The ground trembled under its quivering bulk

"It hides! It hides!" it hissed, dribbling venom as it sniffed for them, scrabbling maniacally at the wood.

Bilbo and Kíli could hardly breath from the stench of it. Kíli was clinging to the hobbit's arm, so tight that his fingers were white.

"It can't reach us in here," said the dwarf, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself as well of Bilbo. The hobbit only shivered.

"Adûn er! You shall not feast today, spawn of Ungoliant!"

The spider made a shrill noise. "Elves, elves, elves!" it spat. There was a sound as of steel being drawn and soon the creature began to scream. "It burns! It burns!"

Bilbo and Kíli were rewarded with a view of the spider's oozing rear as it retreated into the trees, smearing dark slime behind its torn body. The elf sheathed his sword before turning to the roots. He was tall and slender, with eyes so dark they were almost black. His caramel-colored hair gleamed it the eerie half-light.

"You may come out now, master dwarf." The elf's armour reminded Bilbo of a latticework of leaves, almost like the crowns that adorned the trees.

He and Kíli squeezed out from their refuge, trying not to step in the smears of black ichor that the spider had left behind it. Foul pools of blood that marred the leaflitter and filled the air with a hideous stench.

The elf looked closely at Bilbo. "I was not told to look out for a halfling."

Unoffended, Bilbo shrugged. "We were told to look out for you."

The elf eyed him with a wry amusement that made the hobbit think of Elrond. "You were also told to stay on the path, I believe."

Bilbo squirmed. What could he say? The dwarves had gone off into the forest- heedless of Gandalf's warning. Not him. He had insisted they stay on the path. Once they had tried to cross the river…all had gone ill. "Yes…I know."

Kíli strode to face the elf. "Our companions- "

"They are safe," he replied. "My name is Ingwil. Please, follow me. You shall be reunited with them shortly."

Ingwil led them as swift as a shadow through the trees, his pointed ears listening carefully to each sound that followed them. As they continued on, the forest seemed to slowly shed the sickness that had lain on it; the trees straightened- standing proud and tall, crowned with heads of lush leaves and blooms that held a sweet scent. Bilbo inhaled deeply, feeling his fear fall away. They seemed almost like the great warriors of old; stern and imposing and kind. Like Elrond.

It was some time before Bilbo and Kíli noticed that a second elf had fallen into step beside them. He had a grave face and dark hair- the color of an evening grown grey and weary, and eyes of a curious pale green. Almost like the lichen that Bilbo could see growing on the trees. His voice, when he spoke, was soft.

"The dwarves are at the gate."

"Did you find them all, Glamren?" asked Ingwil.

"Yes."

Thranduil watched the dwarves reunited within the Elven Gates as they swung shut behind the company. He could not remember Gandalf telling him of a halfling…but he had not asked overmuch of them. That was his own blunder; not that of the wizard. All this fled from his mind as Oakenshield turned to face him. The dwarf's face was dark; a storm of grim, grey thunder waiting to strike.

"I understand we have you to thank for sending aid," he growled.

"No," said Thranduil, keeping his face blank. "You have Míthrandir to thank. You know him as Gandalf the Grey, I believe."

"Gandalf was here?" said a young, black-haired dwarf. He was hardly bearded. Thranduil ignored him and turned to face his soldiers. The dwarves could wait.

"Lhingrilen in?" he asked of Glamren and Ingwil.

The spiders?

"Gwinth mae, aran nîn," said Ingwil darkly. "Caedathan o fern cam in fincanad. Enill I adh tâd in Nogothrim."

Are furious, my king. Four of them lie dead by our hand, and another two by the dwarves.

Thranduil looked down at Thorin, a small glimmer of respect entering into him. "You fought even though outnumbered?"

"Dwarves do not run from a fight," returned the son of Thrain.

"Then not only are you brave, but incredibly foolhardy." He almost laughed at the expression that crossed the dwarf's face. Flickers of pride and grim anger. He knew not how to respond to what was both a complement and a rebuke. The Elvenking hid his amusement and remained what the dwarf wished to see: a king with eyes of ice, a crown of thorns and distain for the folk of Durin. One who had not wanted to offer aid but had rather been forced into it. And it was not wholly a lie, for even now, Thranduil was unsure.

"How did Gandalf manage to wring a promise from you?" said Thorin Oakenshield now, his eyes black with anger as he glared up at the elf. "You- Who have no honour?"

Thranduil was smote with a feeling of shock. For a moment, it was all he could do to hold himself together. The deep anger curling up within him. The elf opened his mouth then closed it again. rage had rendered him speechless. Finally, his calm a thin chain on the brink of snapping, he choked, "I have no honour?" the dwarf watched him with a face like a stormbank, mouth a distainful curl. Thranduil's voice was corrosive with a black hate. "Do not. Do not speak to me of honour, grandson of Thrór. Your family had none. He would have watched my people die without lifting a hand to offer us aid."

"And you?" snarled Thorin, jabbing a finger accusingly at the elf. "I would not trust you, Thranduil, should the end of all days be upon us! We came to you seeking aid. Seeking shelter. But you turned your back on us! Fled from the fire! Imrid amrād ursul!"

"Do not talk to me of dragon fire!" spat Thranduil, allowing the enchantment on his scars to fade away. The pain that followed almost sent him to his knees. As he fought to keep them from bucking beneath him, he thrust his face into the dwarf's. Shock bloomed in Thorin's eyes as he took in the wreak of Thranduil's visage. The scarred and pitted flesh. The dwarf's own face was now uncertain. "I have faced the great serpents of the north."

Breathing hard from the pain, Thranduil's lips curled back in a snarl. "I warned your grandfather of what his greed would bring…it was only a matter of time before it brought a dragon down on him." The elf sounded suddenly wary. "I rode to Erebor…showed him my scars. I pleaded that he halt his doings before his kin could feel the flames. You…your father…"

Thorin's face was stunned, but he remained silent. Waiting.

"He laughed and turned me away." The elf straightened. "I warned him of the gold-sickness that lay heavy upon him, but he became enraged and drew his blade on me."

Thorin's blue eyes were wide. "I…your tale rings with truth, Elvenking…yet I have never heard of it before. My grandfather never spoke of it."

"I doubt it not," said Thranduil, grim. "For he sorely regretted his rash move later. That was the day he lost the respect of my people. Perhaps…you may yet have a chance to earn it back."

The dwarf swallowed. "And still: you would offer us aid?"

"Míthrandir convinced me." Thranduil beckoned to Ingwil with a hand. "Since the death of my son…we have lived behind closed doors… perhaps it is well-nigh time that changed." The Elvenking's scars faded away as he turned to Ingwil. "Furnish them with what they need and take them someplace that they may rest." He saw a gleam of respect flicker to life in Thorin Oakenshield's eyes.

"They have a long journey yet before them."